


A Loud Canvas

by BoilingHeart



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), RA9 - Freeform, and connor also accidentally has a Bad Time, at carl's house painting n shit, connor has a BIT OF A CRUSH, connor tries to paint, mentions Of Carl vaguely Existing, no beta we die like men, self indulgent all the way it's the first time i've written fanfic in a long while please enjoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 16:17:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18742600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoilingHeart/pseuds/BoilingHeart
Summary: Markus invites Connor over to come try out painting. Things are going well, until Connor begins to lose himself in the art, and not in a good way.





	A Loud Canvas

**Author's Note:**

> Me? Writing fanfiction? In 2019? More likely than you think
> 
> hi i had this idea a few weeks ago and wouldn't stop thinking about it and if i wanna indulge in content like this i have to do it mySELF
> 
> I tried to edit as best I can, hopefully it's not too choppy!

Adjusting to a new way of life after the revolution isn’t easy for everyone, be they human or android. Everyone came from different walks of life, their choices shaping everything around them and the people who would love or loathe them. Some humans still had their prejudices, some androids had their own traumas to mull over. Either way, Markus had become a hero, a shining new beacon, a bastion of hope for the androids, and the future was bright and promising.

Connor was grateful for his freedom, the entire world looking so different with these new eyes. To be alive, to  _ feel _ alive -- it was something he accredited fully to Markus for setting him free. The thought of it is still one Connor hasn’t been able to fully process and dissect; Markus, held at gunpoint, still made an effort to reach out to him. Markus, after witnessing the destruction of Jericho, a massacre brought on by Connor, still saw a hope in him, still trusted him, still  _ welcomed _ him. Even after Amanda had nearly seized control of Connor’s program and killed Markus before hundreds of freed androids, Markus held no resentment, no fear, no worry.

Had the roles been reversed, Connor would not have hesitated to kill.

He shoves these thoughts down, focusing back on the present as he took a few breaths to cool his systems. It had been several months since all of it had happened, and he stood now beside Markus as he always has since then, returning a favor. Guarding him. Watching for him. Like a loyal guard dog. Markus seems to catch the look on his face, and he puts a comforting hand on Connor’s shoulder, smiling gently.

“You don’t have to be tense all the time, you know,” Markus says, his eyes glancing briefly at the LED at Connor’s temple. “It’s safe here.”

Connor looked around the home. Expensive, frivolous, full of so much art and books -- seeing Manfred’s home in person at last made him understand Markus so much more. But still, he remembered hearing that this was where Markus died, and he wondered how he could be so calm leading Connor to the studio when he himself could barely even look down a skyscraper after his own death. It keeps him on edge.

The doors slide open, and there are canvases filled everywhere, most unfinished, others full of so much color. Markus watches Connor carefully, smiling a little to himself as Connor’s LED shifts to a curious yellow, scanning each piece. Connor broke down each stroke, identifying which were Manfred’s art style, and the others with the flourish only Markus knew how to create. His HUD lights up, picking out every detail by the millisecond; the magazines left behind, the age of some of the canvases, dust left on some of the countertops, dried oils and acrylics. His stress rises, however, when he manages to catch just the faintest trace of thirium left in the pavement. He could tell someone made an effort to scrub it clean. A human eye wouldn’t be able to detect it, and he wagers, neither would Markus anyways; his model is far more advanced than Markus’, able to pick up the scene and deconstruct it with ease. A blessing, when on missions, but right now, only a curse.

Markus had turned his back just before seeing Connor pick up on the scene, oblivious to the detective work. He hums a song quietly as he reaches for a blank canvas, propping it on the easel and setting up a palette of paints. Connor eventually rejoins him, head tilting slightly as he watches Markus mix the colors.

“Ever since Carl taught me to paint, it’s been something I haven’t been able to stop,” Markus says as he approaches, already beginning to fill in the white spaces of the canvas. “Didn’t get to make much when I led Jericho, but now I paint whenever I get the chance. It’s… calming.”

He can’t help but be a little amused at how Connor paid so much attention to each stroke, his LED at a stable yellow as he processes it. Markus is able to create art much faster than a human -- the perks of being an android -- but the speed never took away from the artwork itself. It wasn’t long until the near surreal piece was done. A full moon overhead a sea, except it appeared to be bleeding thirium blood, and the sea appeared as though it were being held by a pair of android hands.

Markus steps back to look over the piece, turning to Connor expectantly. Connor seemed fully invested in the artwork, his gaze lingering on it for a while until the LED finally spun blue.

Markus smirks. “What do you think?”

Connor gave it another glance before meeting Markus’ eyes. “There’s a part of me tempted to comment on how the moon can’t bleed,” He says, humor in his voice. “But it’s intriguing. Very much so.”

Connor had silently stored the memory of this painting into his long-term storage. He would think on this later.

An amused huff is all Markus responds with, and he moves to replace the canvas, setting his painting to dry to the side. Then, with a bit of a flourish, he hands the palette of paint to Connor. The action was unexpected, and it stumps him for a moment, simply staring at the brush and paint as its offered to him.

“Hey, come on now,” Markus teases, holding it closer to Connor until he took it. “Aren’t you a bit curious what you can make? I know I am.”

Holding the palette and brush felt so… foreign to Connor. Seeing Markus work with it was far different than this, and he finds himself shaking his head, trying to give it back.

“This is more your thing, Markus,” Connor says, internally questioning why his thirium pump seemed to have kicked a notch. “I was designed with forensics and investigative work in mind, my software specifically intended for police and --”

“Right, and I’m a domestic android who led a revolution,” Markus teases, poking at Connor’s shoulder. “You’re not bound by your creators anymore, Connor.”

Connor nods slowly, holding up the brush the same way he had seen Markus do so. Markus steps aside so he could stand before the canvas, processing. He samples the data of the times he had watched Markus create art, trying to figure out where he would begin. None of Markus’ paintings made entire sense to him, let alone the thirium moon he had just witnessed, and Connor found it rather silly that he would stand here before this inanimate, blank canvas, and feel intimidated by it.

Markus’ gentle voice fills the silence. “I was daunted by the idea of painting too when I first started,” He reminisces, garnering Connor’s full attention. “Don’t think too hard about it. It’s about… your emotion, paint what you feel.” He stood close to Connor, and damn him, Connor’s thirium pump continues to betray him. Markus sweeps his hand out towards the canvas, as if painting with just his gesture. “Interpret the world, improve on it, show what you see.”

Connor nods at this, looking between his blue and green eyes. Markus only offers a reassuring smile, and he has to turn away else another biocomponent of his starts complaining at the sight of it. “Alright,” Connor says, dipping the brush in black paint with three taps, just as Markus usually did. “... Walk me through this?”

Markus recalls Carl’s words to him, taking an unneeded breath as he watches Connor mimic him. It was funny in a way; Connor taking up this role while Markus tries to repeat the words Carl had given. It was like singing a song off key. 

“Close your eyes for me,” Markus says, watching Connor’s flutter shut. There’s a bit of excitement he finds, anticipating what he might witness, but he keeps it tampered down. “Imagine… something that doesn’t exist, or something you’ve never seen. Concentrate on how it makes you feel and just… let your hand drift across the canvas.”

Connor remains silent, standing stiff in that odd, prim way he always held himself. There’s a long moment of hesitation before Connor lets the brush make contact, sweeping strokes filling the canvas with black streaks. Several times he opens his eyes to see where he’s going, nose twitching ever so slightly when the paint gave out on him and he needed to refresh it. It takes him a while to get accustomed to this, but luckily, androids don’t get tired, and Markus is more than happy to stand there the entire duration as Connor figures it out.

The first paintings start off relatively abstract. Blacks, greys, blues and reds are streaked across with no general guidance or direction aside than to just  _ be _ on the canvas. A few strokes that were intended to be straight come out horrendously wobbly, much to Connor’s dismay. He starts over several times, repainting the canvas back to black, each attempt beginning to take more form and shape as he paints. He was learning and improving right before Markus’ eyes, and it was fascinating to watch. Markus wonders if this was what it was like for Carl when he watched him paint for the first time.

One hour, and twelve minutes pass since Connor began, and Markus can finally see a solid picture beginning to form. He still stuck with the same four colors, but now, they were working for him, values becoming present as Connor tapped into something within him. Grey streaks -- buildings, skyscrapers, he realizes, frames the canvas, the eye drawn to the bright rooftop at the bottom center, as if watching the scene from a bird’s eye view. Markus’ brows furrow as he watches the art begin to take form and shape, what he assumes to be a pixelated helicopter coming to life at the top, shining a light down on a figure at the rooftop while flares and strokes of red and blue pitter and patter in muffled tones around the scene. Connor’s controlled brushstrokes slowly become harsher, more energized than before, detailing a figure on the rooftop. Markus moves closer to peer at it, painted pixels forming the RK800 standing at the edge of the roof, and suddenly, Markus is filled with a wave of unease.

Paint is flicked here and there as the brush strokes become more fervent, the art coming together quicker than he was managing before. Armed soldiers all stood facing the painted Connor as he too faced them, despair in his features, red LED glowing to a broken halo that leaked and bled to the ground. Lights shone down on him, guns pointed towards him -- he holds himself hostage, his own pistol aimed at his head. Horrifically beautiful, an art piece that he knows that, if it were to be displayed at a gallery, would have the rich humans cooing and speaking over it with their wines.

But it didn’t feel right. From where Markus stood, he could see the angular features of Connor’s face were pulled taut in stress, eyes were fully shut, and as Markus circles Connor so he stood to his right, and he catches sight of the LED at his temple glowing an alarming shade of red, pulsing with every stroke he made. Every stroke, angry, shaky, losing the control and restraint he had seen earlier. 

“Connor?” He calls to him. Connor doesn’t seem to acknowledge him in the slightest, and he doesn’t react when Markus puts a hand to his shoulder. Markus didn’t need to interface with him to notice that his stress levels were rising by the second, and he gives a gentle shake. “Connor, hey, you don’t need to keep going.”

He still doesn’t stop. Whatever it was he was trying to say with this needed to be out. He was caught in a trance, still moving and swaying a beat that wasn’t his own. His teeth grit, the red paint he was adding to the color near the rendition of himself suddenly spikes out, a streak of the red cutting through the skyscrapers and smearing against the greys and blacks. His cheeks were slick with tears, and as if he were possessed, his strokes change entirely. He wasn’t painting anymore, no -- this was a font. He was writing, ruining the canvas, red text over the skyscrapers and the lights. ‘RA9’, on repeat, again, again,  _ again-- _

_ “Connor!”  _

Markus took hold of Connor’s face in his hands, and his eyes fly open, taking gasping for air to cool down systems he hadn’t realized were overheating. The palette drops from his hand, and he grasps Markus instinctively, grounding himself without thinking. Strings of errors clog up his system, and he takes several slow breaths before everything returned back to normal, focusing again on what was in front of him.

And oh god, Markus was right in his face.

“There you are,” Markus says, relief clear in that gentle voice of his, hands still cupping Connor’s cheeks. “Are you alright? I… I didn’t mean for this to stress you.”

Connor is keenly aware of how Markus brushes away the tears that had run down his cheeks, and he can’t stop questioning  _ why _ it happened. There was no outward trigger, no real danger, and yet his entire system was poised for combat, defensive maneuvers online and ready to act, and yet he felt so unstable in the midst of it. There was something grounding about Markus being there, however, though the closeness was not something he was accustomed to. At the very least, his stress levels were beginning to reel back enough for stability.

“I.. I don’t know why I did that…” Connor says, looking back to his canvas.  _ RA9. _ He recalls his previous investigations on the deviants, and how they had all frantically wrote this script on the walls, or anywhere they could get a pen to. He can feel the scripts that ran in the background and the anomalies that became present upon deviancy repeat, a sensation that would come close to that of a headache. The code continues to echo in his head, and he’s very careful to set down the paintbrush he still held so that he didn’t end up writing it again. “I… wasted your paints. I’m sorry.”

“No no, it’s fine,” Markus reassures, backing away to give Connor some space. He stoops down to fetch the palette that fell, looking back to the painting with worry. He was relieved Connor responded at all -- he’d seen other androids in Jericho reach a state similar to what he just witnessed, and it never failed to frighten him. Connor still stared at his canvas, his LED still red and cheeks still wet. 

It was so strange, he thought, to see Connor this way. Connor, who always kept himself so eerily calm, prim and proper, who never let anyone see or think they had the upper hand. Connor, who carried himself with power, who could track down and hunt enemies with ease, who knew how to preconstruct skirmishes and fights and predict an outcome that he would come victorious. Connor, who had proven he would take a bullet or twelve for anyone he cared for. Connor, who now stood in his home, looking uncharacteristically lost and confused, with an art piece that said so much yet so little about who he was. Markus didn’t know how to process it.

Connor seems to pick up on this, and he holds his head up, carrying himself as if nothing had happened at all. Only his LED betrays him. “One of my earliest memories,” He says, gesturing to the canvas. “Philips apartment, 70th story, August 15, 2038. A PL600 took a little girl hostage -- CyberLife deployed me to tackle the situation. As one of my first missions, I have a tendency to revisit the memory… deconstruct it and rerun the numbers and success probabilities.”

Connor blinks several times, a defect of his as a result of being a prototype. He gestures to the art vaguely, and though Markus still hadn’t quite figured out how to read Connor entirely, he could tell that there was something heavy weighing in on him. He listens intently as he continues.

“Ever since my deviancy, I’ve thought again about that android. Daniel. I wondered if I would have done the same. What would have become of me had I been in his stead.” Connor says aloud. He runs a thumb over the still wet paint, staring down at the red that smeared on his synthetic skin. The algorithm rings in his head again, and he backs away, resisting the urge to frantically write again. “Art… is…. interesting.”

Connor looks up at Markus, doe-eyes searching him curiously. His LED was now settling back to a yellow with glimpses of blue, and he had the need to fidget and rid himself of the excess energy he had produced. Markus reaches out, hesitating only for a moment as he ponders his actions, and simply rests a hand on his shoulder. The touch is welcomed, and for a moment they just look to the painting silently.

“I understand if you don’t want to do this again,” Markus says at last, breaking the silence. “If I had known it would upset you like this, I wouldn’t have --”

“Actually,” Connor interrupts, looking to Markus and realizing that there was paint left on him. He tries to wipe it off his shirt with a finger. “As… strange as this was, I don’t think I despised it. If anything, I feel like it… helped me.”

Markus blinks a few times, but cracks a small smile. “Humans do find art to be therapeutic in a sense.”

Connor shrugs a shoulder. “Maybe it could do without the red paint everywhere. Perhaps I should have made a bleeding sun to compliment yours.”

They both chuckle lightly at that, and Connor is quick to take hold of the canvas he ruined and sets it aside, hoping not to look at it any further. There was something to this art, he supposes, and he had a newfound respect for it. He gave the studio another scan, now looking to the artwork with a different appreciation. The abstract faces, the bleeding moon, the flowers and rivers, the portraits of neon colors -- he wouldn’t be opposed to learning more about it.

“Well, you know,” Markus says, facing him fully. “You’ll always have another chance.”

That damn smile.

**Author's Note:**

> RA9 is just the equivalent of a windows error sound
> 
> Thanks for reading! It's been a long while since a fandom got me so good that I started actively writing. Maybe I'll make more, who knows! Time will tell! Apologies if the ending came off weird, I do NOT know how to end anything and I don't intend on continuing this anyways haha


End file.
